There’s no recognition
from the mirror in the hall
as she passes each day.
Nor from the faces that greet her
at the table each night.
Features, mannerisms, outlooks, opinions
all too familiar,
all foreign.
Silverware clatters as plates are passed,
drowning out every question
that she knows better than to ask.
“You can be whatever you want to be!”
It’s sound parental advice.
Except that she doesn’t know who she is.
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Submission Name: Adopted Identity
